


see your face wasn't quite as i remember

by stormwarnings



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Multi, Tags will be added as necessary, eldritch peredhil, fae elves, heavily descriptive and poetic prose, in which everybodys a big happy family until they aren't, prepare yourself, rather an origin story (but not quite), relationships are eventual!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwarnings/pseuds/stormwarnings
Summary: In which, through a diplomatic agreement, the child of Thranduil (and his adopted Silvan sibling) and the children of Elrond (and their adopted Edain sibling) grow up, away, and back together.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Arwen Undómiel & Elladan & Elrohir, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Legolas Greenleaf & Tauriel, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36
Collections: Eldritch Peredhil





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello - i have the attention span of a squirrel on crack, so this is going to be a (most likely slow) self-indulgent wip. it will be entirely canon-compliant, but it will also draw heavily on my own hcs (such as the eldritch-nature of those of maia descent, or the rather fae-nature of the Silvan elves) so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ enjoy

**_From the records of correspondence between Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris, and Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking under the Wood –_ **

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 133_

_Old friend,_

_This will be an informal letter – I would congratulate you and_ _Celebrían on the birth of two healthy ellons. You will soon, I am sure, be intimately acquainted with the joys of raising a young one, albeit without some of the more complicated ceremonies of the Silvan that came along with Legolas’s birth. Brethillómë would like to pass along that your wife is bravest of elleths, for “twins are no small feat”!_

_We, with this letter, have sent along a few small gifts. The Dwarven colony under the Lonely Mountain has begun to grow, and Brethillómë_ , _in an effort to facilitate friendship and trade (as I know you would encourage, and you need not say anything about it at all) has purchased two small pendants for the twins. As well, the traditional weavings of birth. While I know you are not Silvan, nor do you conform to the secret patterns amongst which we follow, you are an ally and a friend. I hope that you and_ _Celebrían will accept these robes for what the tradition is fundamentally about – a gift of love, to celebrate new lives, and to celebrate the lineage of that family which they will lay claim to._

_In other news, men (MEN!) have begun settling among the eastern eaves of the Wood. The kin of the area are simply incensed, and frankly, I cannot blame her. First the dwarves, now the men, first the east, next the west, I can hardly believe…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 136_

_My friend,_

_I do apologize for the late response, and also that it will most likely arrive around winter time. Both_ _Celebrían and I think you from the bottom of hearts for the gifts – she and Erestor think the twins look lovely in the robes. Although I fear that they will outgrow them in no more than two decades, we will certainly treasure them. The pendants, on the other hand, will be held until they grow old enough to learn that not everything is for hitting each other with._

_Not all men are evil, dear friend, though I am sorry to hear that they are causing issues with the kin territory. At these times, I am infinitely glad that I never took a throne – I do love politics, but I also love the peacefulness of this Homely House, and how my people are less far-flung, and easier to converse with._

_Though life is never boring, not with Elladan and Elrohir, nor with the ever-present bickering of Glorfindel and Erestor. Just the other day (and I am sure you will be amused by this, and Brethillómë too) Glorfindel started offering free drinks to any who would dare let him jump a horse over their head while holding his sword. I do believe he is bored, and while I cannot blame him, it is ridiculous. As well…_

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 148_

_A quick note,_

_The latest song from a travelling minstrel has brought yet more news of Glorfindel and his elaborate schemes. Ha! If the stories of his attire are to be believed, I would say that he ought to make his way to our Court – my wife’s mother-kin would almost certainly love him._

_Your last letter was reassuring. I am glad to hear that Legolas is not the only one who tries to run away once or twice, though Brethillómë was quite concerned when he did. Of course, he is related in one way or another to almost every kin that lives within a three day journey, so he was quickly found and returned._

_In the most recent developments, it seems that the a strange, small folk are beginning to settle along the river, and…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 155_

_Thranduil,_

_Is the news to be believed?_ _Celebrían tells me that Brethillómë has come into a child! Will you be adding another to the family? Erestor, Glorfindel,_ _Celebrían, and I, along with the congregation of fools that I call my council, will be eagerly awaiting your response._

_Through an odd turn of events, we are harboring the latest heir in the line of Isildur, and Elbereth, he does look like my late brother. He acts like him too. Sometimes I do not understand men, and then the ghost of Elros that is still in my heart reminds me that I too was, on occasion, an imbecile. Do you think that perhaps…_

* * *

Legolas is still very young when he gains a sister.

The adoption ceremony happens at night, under the shadowed tree branches and the starry sky. Greenwood the Great is still in her prime, and she feels friendly around Legolas. Her songs are bright and complex and they swirl around him like smoke.

Legolas’s mother, Brethillómë, forces his hair into the intricate braids of the Silvan folk, and her handmaid wrangles Tauriel’s. Legolas has the warm-oak skin of his mother, while Tauriel’s is lighter. Legolas has the straight, golden hair of his father, far from his mother’s tight curls in dark braids, and Tauriel’s hair is red like fire. But in the mirror, with the root paste designs on their arms and their hair in the braids of the blood-spirit-kin and lineage and royalty, with their heavily woven and embroidered robes of deep green, they look like kin. Brethillómë carefully puts an arm around the two of them.

“You are loved,” she says in Silvan. “You are loved.”

The ceremony happens outside of the Halls, since things like this must happen under the true tapestry of the Wood. Brethillómë steps out into the night as the Silvan queen. Thranduil awaits outside the door to take her arm, the Elvenking to her Elvenqueen, antler-skulls on their heads to honor the Lord of the Hunt.

Tauriel swallows, next to Legolas. She is shorter than him. After this ceremony, she will officially be part of the royal family, the princess of the Silvan. (Though the likelihood of either her or Legolas inheriting the throne is slim – the Elvenking and Elvenqueen rule until they go on, and then the kins gather to choose their new ruler.)

Legolas takes her hand. “Family,” he says in Silvan. It does not have the same meaning as it does in Sindarin. It is not mother-father-sister-brother, it is love-strength-loyalty, protection-no-matter-your-path.

Tauriel looks up at him, and her eyes glitter with strength and newfound resolve. “Family,” she agrees, and then they step out as two.

The elves of the Silvan folk are gathered with fireflies in their hands, lighting the path towards the fire-circle. Legolas recognizes his friends – and yet in the dark light, among the shadowed forest, they are different. They wear the traditional jewelry, feathers and beads and crowns of bone, and the robes of their kin colors, embroidered with teeth and stories. They seem greater, and in the back, at the very edge of the light, stand tall and proud members of the Court of the Hunt, ghostly and flickering and unknown, with their feathers and scales and animal eyes. Legolas keeps his eyes straight ahead as he walks, and the Hunt shimmers pale at the far reaches of his vision. If he looks closely enough, he can almost thinks he sees the Lord of the Hunt himself – Oromë, Tauron, with his horn and his bow and the antlers on his head.

The night feels charged with song and magic. The night feels strange, and alien, and Legolas is a part of it.

Tauriel is smiling as they walk the path, and Legolas cannot help but grin back. The folk crowd in behind them, following, and a firefly alights in Tauriel’s hair. She giggles, and Legolas knows that he would do anything for this sister of his.

* * *

_Thranduil Orop_ _herion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 184_

_Elrond,_

_In response to your last missive – the small folk are quite queer! They are smaller even than dwarves, and they do not wear shoes. For the first time, I believe I must admit that I prefer the dwarves. At least their merchants who travel the Old Forest Road are willing to drive a fair bargain for well-made goods. And though they can sometimes get lost in the way that time weaves itself through the forest, we return their favor by guiding them through. (Brethillómë would like to insert here that “she believes you should be proud of me”.)_

_Tauriel and Legolas are practically inseparable. I believe that they have quite endeared themselves to the Chiefs of the various kins, which greatly reassures Brethillómë. However, they are quite rambunctious, and while I am happy that they are no longer underfoot constantly, I worry what exactly they are going to get up to when they are not constantly watched._

_If I may ask, have you news of Lindon, and Círdan? We have not heard much recently, and…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 200_

_A short note,_

_We are two centuries into this new Age, now. No small wonder, and yet it is freeing to be building, and growing, creating places untouched by the darkness. I am being maudlin,_ _Celebrían says, yet I cannot help but think of Elros._

_Speaking of which, raising these two is exhausting. I feel more pity for my foster fathers now, in their upbringing of myself and Elros! Celebrían would like to compare notes with Brethillómë: do the Silvan kins’ children often – and here I know I am referring to an area of magic which is your forest and peoples’ domain, and very vastly different from that of the Noldor – but do your children often give off such a (in the terms of the Silvan folk) disturbance in the weaving of the music? They can be so strange, as if the world itself twists around them! And yet in my thinking I remember my own childhood, and I see in my sons a mirror – that of myself and Elros, that of my mother’s brothers, and I cannot ignore that they too have the blood of Melian…_

* * *

Elladan and Elrohir are still relatively young, not fully grown, when Glorfindel catches them.

They’re sitting in a corner of an outer courtyard, carefully taking apart a pig and eating it. It’s nice for Elladan, who is always hungry (mother says he’s growing), and it’s nice for Elrohir, who wants to see what the brain looks like (father says he’s too much like him). However, both of them have the common sense to understand that this is one of those things the vast majority of the population (up to and including Erestor) would be fairly disgusted by, so they tend not to do it where they can be seen.

But then along comes Glorfindel, and the twins both see him at the same time, which means Elrohir has no time to hide.

“Fin!” Elladan calls out joyously.

Elrohir quickly chews and swallows his mouthful, and subtlety attempts to wipe his hands on the cobblestone. He glances up as the blond warrior approaches. “Good evening,” Elrohir says politely.

“Would you like some?” Elladan offers.

Glorfindel takes a good long look and then pinches the bridge of his nose, which is much like the gesture Elrond makes when he is tired.

Elrohir has read enough to know that the different clans of the Quendi display their power in different ways. He knows that the Silvan elves sing to the trees and to the animals, and to the patterns that move through the world. He knows that the elves of Lindon are kin with the sea, and that there are Sindar still who follow the old traditions. He’s read tales of the First Age Noldor, of Maedhros the Tall who strode into battle his sword alit with fire and fury, of Fingon the Valiant whose arrows burned like freezing ice, of Finrod Felagund who sang a windstorm into being around Sauron’s head.

The thing is, though, that none of those powers are like Elladan and Elrohir.

“Alright,” Glorfindel says. He crouches down. “Let’s finish that up quick, and in the meantime, I need you to remember something. Are you listening?”

Elladan exchanges a glance with Elrohir, and they both nod. Elrohir, out of the corner of his eye, sees the pig twitch. His hand shoots out to yank the leg off and stick it in his mouth.

Glorfindel’s eye twitches. “This,” he points to the pig, “is not allowed. If you are going to hunt something, which you aren’t allowed to do quite yet, then you must _hunt_ it. Give it a fair fight. And let it lay at rest in the woods where it deserves.”

“Yes, Fin.” Elladan and Elrohir both look down, suitably abashed.

After they clean up the pig, Glorfindel stands up. He takes their hands like they are very young again. “I think it’s time for a story.”

“A story?” Elladan asks, and Elrohir looks up curiously.

“Your story,” Glorfindel tells them.

They walk the open passageway over the falls, and in the golden light of the setting sun one can almost forget that Glorfindel himself glows. One can almost think that they three are themselves not strange.

Elrohir has heard some of the tale of Melian and her descendants, but not as fully, nor as in-depth. It is a long tale, and not a happy one, and Glorfindel looks at the two of them with a deep sadness in his eyes as he tells it.

“That is no story,” Elladan says at the end, with more seriousness than he usually displays. “That is a doom.”

Glorfindel closes his eyes. He tugs the two of them down to sit on the edge of the walk, their feet dangling off. He points up at the stars, at Gil-estel. “Do you see that star? That’s your grandfather.” He sighs. “I’m no good at this,” he mutters to himself, and Elladan leans against him reassuringly. “A doom is a bad thing, yes. But our people have always been doomed. Your grandfather was doomed. And now he is a star.”

Elrohir looks up at the stars, that dark and jeweled tapestry. He glances across Glorfindel at his twin, whose eyes reflect his own. Deep, inky blackness. It’s like looking into a void. Elrohir glances down. His grey eyes, his normal ones, are in the middle of his palms, blinking up at him.

“What was it like to be reborn?” Elrohir asks, without even meaning to.

Glorfindel grabs hold of their shoulders with big, rough hands, and after a careful few seconds, he shoves them forward just slightly, just suddenly, just enough to put that burst of adrenaline in their chests, that moment of hesitation and anticipation that comes before the fall.

“It was the opposite of that,” Glorfindel says, and sighs. The twins can hear how it rushes through his chest. “It hurt.”

Which really, there’s nothing to say to that.

“Do you think someday we will be stars?” Elladan asks, later.

And Glorfindel hesitates. “Maybe.”

* * *

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 217_

_Elrond,_

_It is good to hear that the orcs did not come too close to Imladris. We are still dealing with these Men, and I find myself sympathizing more with the Chiefs of the kin. My wife councils friendliness, but this Wood is our home. And it is not for the faint of heart! These men cannot be allowed to destroy it, and we will not sacrifice it just to make allies. _

_Tauriel and Legolas have discovered the joys of archery, and I fear that their limitless energy will soon drive them headfirst into danger. But they are both learning well, and Galion has discovered in my daughter an eager apprentice in the art of knives…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 239_

_Elbereth save us,_

_My in-laws have arrived. The court is in disaster. We were not prepared in any way for their visit, and though I know_ _Celebrían is laughing, I cannot help but think that Galadriel is perhaps judging me. It does not help that Elladan and Elrohir have taken it upon themselves to set up Glorfindel and Erestor; I think that Celeborn is already reveling in the ever-chaotic nature of their sudden appearance._

_In other news, to add onto your last letter, yes, my wife is pregnant. No, the in-laws do not yet know, although their unexpected arrival does strike fear into my heart. As it is…_

* * *

Celeborn and Galadriel are still in Imladris when Celebrían gives birth.

Celeborn sits with Elladan and Elrohir, who are both trying very hard to concentrate on their books, as they have been since sunrise that morning. Elrohir is doing fine; he’s studious, and there’s a reason he is Erestor’s favorite. But Elladan is impatient, and tired, and ready to see his mother again. He stands up, almost dumping his book on the floor, and strides over to the window. It’s the gloaming hour now, and there’s a storm coming.

Lightning arcs across the sky, and thunder rumbles. Elladan spins around, paces. “Is something going wrong?”

Celeborn shakes his head. “It is like this, sometimes.”

Elladan clenches his fists together. Elrohir joins him at the window, putting a hand on his shoulder, and the two of them are thrown into another night full of storms, for just a moment. Elrohir swallows, and Elladan cries out as the nails on his hands turn hard and talon-like, and drive through his skin like razor-sharp knives.

“Nelyo!” Comes a sharp voice from behind them, and they both turn, but there’s no one there, just Celeborn, and he hasn’t said anything.

“Your hand,” Elrohir says, and Elladan looks down, and there’s three bloody holes straight through, one after another.

Celeborn stands up, and takes Elladan’s hand. “You are lucky it did not touch the bone.”

Elrohir closes his eyes.

They hear their mother scream, and Celeborn presses a hand to Elladan’s. “Do you know,” he says, and makes no move to clean up the blood, “when your mother was born, our lovely Celebrían, she came into the world kicking and screaming. She was an early babe, too early. She is so quiet, my dear, but she came into the world ready to fight.”

“I remember that,” Elrohir says, and Elladan doesn’t, but sometimes he remembers things that Elrohir doesn’t, either.

Celeborn inclines his head, his silver hair braided back, and he says, “The women of your family have always been like that. Quiet enough to be dangerous.”

There’s one last scream, and a flash of lightning so bright it illuminates the bareness of the world. Elladan can see the feather-light bird bones that make up his grandfather’s cheeks, for just a second, before all is dark again. Something clicks into place.

“She’s here,” Elrohir says, and the twins race out of the room, Celeborn following at a similarly fast clip.

In the room are Galadriel, and Elrond, and Nerwa, and there is their mother, looking tired but happy, holding a tiny little bundle in her arms. They walk over, perfectly quiet.

“This is Arwen,” Celebrían says softly, and Elladan reaches out to touch her.

She’s so _small_ – and for a moment, he has a heart-stopping, yearning, ache, because what if she is average, what if she is perfect, what if she is _normal._ But she catches his hand, and yawns, and her mouth is full of tiny, kitten-sharp teeth.

The bottom drops back into his stomach, and he kneels next to his mother. He holds Arwen’s hand, and Elrohir’s rests on his shoulder, and they three share this knowledge of love. They are not alone.

* * *

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 262_

_Thranduil,_

_Arwen is more trouble than I expected. The twins practically dote on her, and I know they get up to more than we know, because I remember being young, and I remember my own childhood, and I know that she twists the Music in the same way they do. Children! They are wonderful and terrible blessings in disguise._

_Has the kin dispute been resolved since your last letter? I have heard…_

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 286_

_Old friend,_

_Well, I have come to the rather sudden realization that while I managed to avoid the Silvan coming-of-age ceremonies, both my children will not. I am not sure whether this scares me or not, and how am I to know? This is my wife’s world, not my own, and I fear for what would happen should she ever leave me._

_The kins have not disputed in a decade, the dwarves have been appeased. All is well, and yet. We have not seen the Hunt in too long. I worry…_

* * *

Tauriel is younger than Legolas. Not by much, but she is. This does not really matter, except Legolas is now two hundred years old, and she is not.

Which means the coming-of-age rituals must be carried out alone, by both of them.

It is the dead of winter. Tauriel does not wait in the Elvenking’s halls, instead choosing to stand amongst the trees. The snow is soft on the ground, everything dressed in white. It’s twilight, and the gathered kins of Legolas’s mother’s people are scattered between the trees, small fires illuminating painted faces. There was another coming-of-age ceremony only six months ago, and that one did not go well.

See, there are three Courts of the Wood. The Court of the Silvan, the Court of the Hunt (loyal followers of Oromë, who allow themselves to give in to the song of the forest and will run with him forevermore), and the Court of the other. That is talked about in hushed voices, for while all the Courts know how to manipulate the patterns of song that flow through the world, the Court of the Darkness knows how to entrap even the strongest of elves.

The coming-of-age rituals are very important. They signify true adulthood, and the opening of possibilities for suitors, and they are the culmination of an elf learning how to move through the music of time and forest, how to follow the paths in the way that they have been taught from birth. But it is easy to get trapped and lost in the music of time, when one does not fully understand it.

So Tauriel is waiting.

Her mother and father are waiting too, but they wait with one of the Chiefs, Thranduil discussing trade agreements in a tone so laidback that it emphasizes just how nervous he is. 

“Little princess,” an elder calls, and beckons to Tauriel when she looks up. “Fire-hair, come here.”

The elder sits near her own fire, with the robes of a kin that Tauriel thinks she might be related to. The braids in her hair are not unlike a few in Tauriel’s own, and her skin is lighter than some, much like Tauriel’s. She is weaving a story into a thick blanket.

Tauriel holds a hand to her chest in respect, and then sits down next to her.

“Don’t fear, little one,” the elder says. “He’s a smart one.”

“I’m not little,” Tauriel responds, and then figures that’s one of the things she shouldn’t have said aloud to a respected elder.

The elleth cackles. “You haven’t done this yet, have you? So you are little.”

Tauriel inclines her head in acknowledgement. “I will soon,” she says.

“Yes, you will.” The elder weaves a careful pattern. “We do not have as many of you young ones as we used to.”

“I know,” Tauriel says softly.

“You remind me of her,” the elder says, and jerks her chin towards Brethillómë. “But not the same. You have stars in your heart, little fire-hair. Stars and diamonds, and someday you’ll have to pick one.”

Tauriel nods politely. “And why will I have to pick?”

The elder cackles like a crow, and Tauriel wonders if this elleth will be with their Court for much longer, or if she will join the Hunt. “Good questions. But there will be a fork in the path, and only one can you walk.”

Tauriel thinks. “What if I make my own path?”

The elder has crow-like eyes, too, sharp and bright. “Well, certainly you could. You’ve got the strength for it. But will you?”

This is a very odd conversation, and one that Tauriel would rather not be having, one that she wishes her mother would swoop in and save her from. But her mother is talking to a Chief, and Tauriel is nearly of age, so she nods politely again and asks, “Would you like me to get you something warm to drink?”

The elder watches her with amusement and intensity, and then says, “Yes, if you would so mind.”

It is as Tauriel is walking back that something twists, and _bends_ , and there’s a humming in the air, melodious and discordant all at the same time, and Legolas stumbles into being. There’s blood on his hands, and horror in his eyes, and Tauriel drops the cup and scrambles towards him.

“Tauriel!” Legolas exclaims, and there’s others running towards him, but Tauriel grabs him, and for some reason he presses their foreheads together, gasping. “I, oh, Tauriel, there has – where? Where are they?”

“Who’s they?” Tauriel asks, pulling his head back so she can look in his eyes.

“They’re, I…I cannot remember, I saw _them_ , Tauriel.”

Legolas gets rushed away from her as their parents rejoin them, and beyond the fire, the elder watches. But Tauriel can’t forget the terrible knowing that was in his face, and she doesn’t forget it, not a year later, not when her mother washes her in the ice cold snowmelt of spring, not when they dress her and braid her hair and paint her face, not when they send her off into the mist. They’re forbidden to really talk about the rituals. But Tauriel thinks she knows. Legolas wasn’t the same, after his. He seems older, now, and that’s how Tauriel can guess.

She steps into the river, sinks into the spring fog, and listens to the song of the forest, to the currents that run under it, and waits for her end.

It’s falling and flying at the same time, like they’re the same thing in the same direction, like all it takes for either is a quick trilling of the voice. It’s the burning lifeforce of the forest below, and the sky above. It’s the way that the network of roots and trees is no different from the interconnected wind currents that blow through the air, which are no different from the chords of music of the world and the Wood. It’s stars, and diamonds, and a song so vast and old and deep that –

 _What happens if I die here,_ she thinks. _Will I become a void_? It isn’t a question that makes sense, but she’s caught up in the song, and she can barely think to move, and there are shadows coming, in her sight that isn’t sight, in front of her eyes that are not eyes.

And then there is a fox. She jolts, like she’s been caught in a trap, and now she is stopped without realizing she’d ever been moving. The fox is strange, his edges blurry, and his colors are not the colors Tauriel thinks vaguely that they should be.

“ _Is dying that bad, daughter of the forest_?”

Foxes don’t speak like elves, and yet this one is.

“ _Dying is an end_ ,” Tauriel tells him. “ _Our kind is not made for that_.” Why did she say our? This is a fox, not an elder.

“ _Death is no end. It is simply another Path._ ”

Tauriel doesn’t know what to say to this. Who is this? Is she moving?

“ _Your kind have always watched the years pass by. They slip through your fingers like sand, and weigh on your shoulders like mountains. Your kin watch the world move without them. How different is death from your isolation? What is death, then, but just another way to pass the time?_ ”

Tauriel feels something drip down her face, and then onto her hand, and when she looks down, suddenly she can see her reflection. She is moving and not moving, her hair swirling behind her like rays of flame, the embroidery on her robes glowing, her eyes crying tears of blood.

The fox tuts, and she doesn’t know how she didn’t notice already that his own eyes are yawning gaps, blacker than the night, blacker than the crow, black enough to swallow something whole. “ _Bad luck, daughter of the forest. You’ll have to pick._ ”

His eyes grow bigger, and bigger, and around Tauriel, the stars begin to fall like pinpricks of swirling light. Had she ever known how many colors they were? Like leaves off trees, falling fast, and for a moment she wants to vomit, and the blood pours out of her eyes faster, until she knows with certainty that if she loses too much more blood, she will die. The singing grows to a crescendo, such an ancient melody, and for a moment she feels old, older than her years, old as a forest, old as –

A mountain. A face, dark hair and braids and a beautiful smile, and the fox’s voice – “ _The world is changing_.” Legolas, and her father’s face closed and cold, and a bird with her mother’s eyes ( _no,_ Tauriel cries), and her birth parents crying for her and for the earth, and three siblings dark-haired and grey-eyed and lovely in the way that defies the world, they smile and laugh and sing and clap hands with Legolas, clap hands with Tauriel, clap hands with a shadow of red hair and a shadow of brown hair, and then there is a great fiery eye, and then there is that mischievous smile again, and Tauriel feels a great sadness welling up in her.

“ _You shall have to pick,_ ” the fox says again, only Tauriel’s certain he’s not a fox now.

She hits the ground, and she has known how to take a fall since she was very little, but she still cannot see, her vision full of red, and the slam into the earth is unexpected. It shocks through her skeleton, like a sudden stop, and something leaves her thoughts like a whisper. She grasps at the skeins of the memory and song, for no matter how much they hurt, it is still powerful and alluring and everything all at once. But they are leaving, they are leaving – they are gone.

“Tauriel,” comes Legolas’s voice, worried and scared and more present than it has been since his own coming-of-age. “Tauriel, wake up!”

Tauriel blinks the red away, and there is her brother’s face and her parents behind him, concerned and normal, not the tragic masks they had worn. Tauriel breathes in with a pained gasp (when had she stopped breathing?) and then does the only reasonable thing.

She faints.

* * *

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 292_

_Dear friend,_

_First things first – how is Tauriel’s recovery? I know that you had said she and Legolas were badly shaken after their coming-of-age, but that there was nothing physically wrong. Have they improved? We anxiously await your response, and I as well have a suggestion to help, though I will return to that in just a minute._

_The next order of business. We thank you for the fifty-year gift for Arwen – she greatly appreciated the necklace, and I believe she wore it to the winter feast. It is a beautiful gift, and unlike the twins, we did not feel that she would break it as soon as we gave it to her. But I worry – she reminds me too much of my late brother. She disappears often with the twins, and they return with blood on their clothes that we find no matter how hard they try to hide it. They all remind me of my own childhood. It is deeply worrying. If they get too bored, I fear they may discover the trick to shifting, and that is not something easily kept from the people of the Imladris. The world still twists around them, and that also is hard to hide, especially in the monotony of the peaceful Home. I remember now it took me nearly three hundred years to learn to hide the otherness, and I was raised in a warzone. (And I thank Eru everyday that our children were not.)_

_So I would suggest something, that maybe would benefit us both. An exchange. A diplomatic agreement (these are Erestor’s words) wherein Tauriel and Legolas join us in Imladris for twenty five years or so, just in time for the century feast. Perhaps they can achieve an inner peace and healing here in this Homely House, as well as (and this is my wife’s idea) possibly find some way to occupy our own children. After the twenty five years is up, Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir would return to Eryn Galen with Tauriel and Legolas, and spend the next twenty five years with your own folk, learning of the people that lie outside this bubble they have grown up in. Then all would be home in time for the half-century, and perhaps all would be better off for it. There would be a kinship between our families, and though I hope never to have to call on it, this friendship would indeed forge a strong alliance between the Noldor and the Silvan. _

_Again, I anxiously await your response. In some lighter news, I believe my children are yet again plotting…_

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 293_

_Elrond,_

_Finally Brethillómë and I have had an agreement drawn up, and once the papers are signed, our children will be on their way._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being an account of the years Tauriel and Legolas are fostered in Imladris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *emerges from the woodwork to throw an update at you then retreats quickly*

Arwen isn’t quite sure what to expect when Tauriel Thranduiliel and Legolas Thranduilion ride into Imladris.

“Stop fidgeting,” Celebrían murmurs.

Arwen would like to glare at her mother. But she is of age now, and she is going to act mature about it, and she’s just very much hoping there is no blood on the train of her dress.

Then the horses canter down the path and into the center, and Arwen stumbles as her brothers step forward, because this is not the first time this has happened. Or maybe it is, and it will not be the last time. The faces of the redhead and the blond on the horses do not change, but for a moment they are lined with grief, then with great terror, then with sadness, and then she blinks, and they are still lined with sadness, but they are also still young.

Elrohir holds her elbow and shoots her a warning glance. Arwen straightens. The visions and the strangeness must stay in the family, she knows. That is not a thing easily explained away.

“Tauriel, Legolas,” Elrond is saying. “We welcome you to our Home.”

Arwen stands with her brothers on either side, and she can tell that they’re struggling not to shimmer and shift, too. The redhead, Tauriel, and the blond, Legolas. There’s something about them. A future, or maybe a past. They’re both dressed nicely, but sensibly. Legolas wears a bow on his back and carries his own travel pack, while Tauriel is carrying knives and her gear. Their equally bright hair is pulled back in braids so intricate that Arwen isn’t even sure how one would take them out. They’re dressed in deep woodland green, and Tauriel wears a combination dress-cloak and leggings that looks both practical and comfortable. Arwen is completely certain she’d like to get at least five of them in several different colors.

The captain of the guard escorting them talks briefly to Glorfindel, then converses in a flurry with the two royals still on their horses. After that, the captain nods to Elrond, turns them around, and departs. Once the courtyard is no longer filled with the clip-clop of hooves, the two Silvan elves dismount.

Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir bow, all together. Tauriel and Legolas do not bow, but they hold their hands to their hearts in respect. The five of them stand awkwardly for a minute, sizing each other up, and a young ellon hurries forward to take their horses.

Then Arwen blurts out in Sindarin, “Tauriel, how did you make your dress? I should like one, I think, it seems much more suitable for hunting.”

Celebrían sighs, in resignation and amusement, and Tauriel laughs, falling into step with Arwen as they enter the House. Behind them, their brothers are tentatively bickering and joking, Legolas offering a respectful gesture to Glorfindel and Elrond.

Arwen straightens as Tauriel walks next to her. They are almost the same height, though Tauriel is older. “You enjoy hunting as well?” Tauriel asks. Her voice is quiet, but shot through with strength.

Something twitches in Arwen’s mind, a memory of the future, or perhaps a vision of the past. She shakes it off. “Yes,” Arwen says. “It is an enjoyable pursuit of my brothers and I, and it allows us to see more of the world outside the valley. Perhaps we might go all together?”

“That would be nice,” Tauriel tells her, and smiles in a hesitant sort of way.

Arwen smiles back.

They walk in silence for a few seconds, before Tauriel asks, “Would you point out who is who, so that I may recognize their faces?”

Arwen nods eagerly. “Of course! There are many of us here, but – ”

Elladan puts an arm on Arwen’s shoulder. “Really, none of them are related to us.”

Tauriel raises an eyebrow at the two of them, looking less impassive, and more amused.

Elrohir and Legolas step in line with the three. “There is no king of the Noldor, no longer,” Elrohir explains, quieter than Elladan but just as intense. “Merely Lords, as you know. Our father, Elrond, is Lord of Imladris, and our mother over there, with the silver hair.”

“I see none of you inherited that,” Legolas says, now looking less travel-worn, more alive with the conversation.

“What an astute observation,” Tauriel dryly tells her brother, and she and Arwen laugh, clear and bright.

Legolas rolls his eyes, and Elladan nudges him. “Sisters, yes?”

“In any case,” Arwen says to Tauriel, “what Elladan meant was that there are many elves here who have trickled in through the mountains. We are a hidden household, a place of healing, and so many here are refugees. There are even some Men. The golden-haired ellon is the Captain of our guard, Glorfindel.” She glances at Tauriel’s face, watching for a flicker of recognition, but there is none. “The stern-looking, dark-haired elf walking with my father is Erestor, our Chief Counsellor. He’s soft at heart, really, just overly occupied with tradition.”

“I take it, then, that you and your siblings frustrate him?” Tauriel asks, hitting the nail on the head with surprising accuracy.

Arwen offers her a slightly-guilty smile. “Well, yes. But the dark-haired one over there, that is Lindir, and there is Gildor, and over there is one of the head healers, Nerwa, and the ellon who took the horses was Nerwa’s son…”

Arwen cheerfully talks all the way until they reach the rooms set aside for Legolas and Tauriel. Tauriel seems happy to listen, occasionally adding her own small comments, while Legolas manages to keep up with Elladan and Elrohir’s quick subject changes, and their habit of finishing each other’s sentences.

The rooms for Tauriel and Legolas are in the same corridor as the children of Elrond. They are organic and bright, full of intricate decorations, and touches that Arwen knows her mother hopes will make the Silvan elves feel comfortable. But Tauriel sits uncomfortably on her bed, looking slightly out of place, and rather lost.

Arwen hovers in the doorway, unsure how to make her guest feel at home. “Would you like help unpacking?” She finally asks. Yet as they do unpack, Arwen catches Tauriel shooting curious glances at her hair. Arwen waits, knowing if Tauriel has a question, she will ask it.

“Do _all_ Noldor wear their hair as such?” Tauriel eventually comes out with. “So…loose?”

Arwen blinks. She glances at the mirror, where her raven hair is flowing unbound all the way down her back. Thinks of her brothers’ hair, dark and straight, cropped close to their chin and shorn on one side. And then Legolas and Tauriel’s hair, all the braids and beads and careful rows.

“It is our custom,” Arwen finally says, hoping that she can approach this diplomatically. “We are a people of crafting, and that has been our way since before the rising of the sun. Thus, we wear our hair free,” that was bad phrasing, “unstyled, only bound back should we be working. It is just our way.” She shrugs.

“I see,” Tauriel replies, still looking a little confused.

“The braids,” Arwen says curiously. “They mean things?”

Tauriel nods. She fishes a few out, says words in Silvan that Arwen doesn’t quite understand. “They translate differently in Sindarin,” Tauriel says softly. “Not quite the same meaning. When we say kin, we do not mean…just, kin. Blood, spirit, kin of your heart. There are different kins.”

Arwen nods, vaguely entranced by the hair, by the way they lick like fire. And then she’s falling into some memory, and she hears the scream of an orc, sees a Sindarin ellon, a proud face and strong features, his braids stained with blood and gore, whirling through the air as he turns. And his face, as he is cut down brutally, and a crown falls from his head, and –

“Arwen, are you well?”

Arwen comes back to herself. “Tauriel,” she says, for the elleth is in front of her, face concerned. Legolas and the twins have also come in, and Elladan is the one holding her up. Elrohir blinks at her, and she doesn’t even need to have a bond with him to understand what his eyes are saying. “I believe I fainted.”

Tauriel’s face relaxes minutely, but she exchanges a look with Legolas.

“Well then,” Elladan says brightly. “I believe it’s time we explored the kitchens!”

* * *

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 296_

_Elrond,_

_How are Tauriel and Legolas? I admit, the halls are much quieter without them. We miss them terribly, of course, but my wife and I have faith that they are doing well in your household, and, I should hope, thriving._

_I shan’t reminisce too long on my children. I believe there is a few travelling Sindar headed towards Imladris; they found no home here among the kin. We are too different, too far estranged, though I believe they expected something else with ‘King Oropher’s Sindarin son’ on the throne. Bah! They found a surprise, when their prejudice against my wife’s people (and indeed, my people – I have lived among their traditions and ways for many centuries, now!) was not tolerated. _

_The Hunt has come near to us, once more. Elders have left, to join them, and I feel more firmly the passage of years. It is almost the turn of the century. There will be celebrations, and a feast…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 299_

_Dear friend,_

_I pen this letter as I watch my household prepare for the midwinter century feast. I hope that this arrives to you before the winter is up, that you may have an idea of this beautiful evening with us._

_The valley is cloaked in snow. It feels rather like a fairytale, with the candles all about. The sun has left us early, and shadows cast by the fire leave the afternoon both strange and homely all at once. Everywhere I look, I see friends in their finery, shining robes and gowns and jewels of old. From the Hall of Fire there comes already the songs, though the feast has not even begun. Tonight, they shall spill into the grand hall, where we shall drink and sing, to remember the days of old, and to celebrate the days that will come._

_My dearest Celebrían, my silver lady, has lived up to her name. Tauriel and Arwen have done back her hair, and she theirs, though Tauriel and Legolas have ensured to wear the honorary braids as deserves their position (they said to tell you this). Celebrían_ _wears a gown of lavender, heavily beaded, and Arwen wears black and bronze and burnished gold. The twins have donned a navy blue, and they have managed to look quite elegant, despite their earlier romp through the snow with Legolas. But truly, it is your two that steal the show. Their hair shines bright in the firelight, and they wear rich colors, Legolas a stormy grey, a sash of light green, and Tauriel a muted blue-green, and surprisingly, a belt lent from my wife, of turquoise and silver._

_I do not use the term lightly, but it is a magical night. It is a night for tradition and lore, a night for love of hearth and home. Your children, I think, do you and Brethillómë_ _proud…_

* * *

The eating has ended, the drinking begun. They have moved to the Hall of Fire, and Elrohir breathes for a moment against the wall, watching the flow of elves in the hall, as the circles of dancing begin. Greenery has been hung in the rafters, and the fireplaces along the walls are already surrounded by eager speakers and avid listeners. He catches a sight of his twin in identical garb, an earring hanging from the ear shown off by the shorn side of his head. He sees Legolas, carefully spinning Arwen around. The colors complement each other – Legolas’s darkly whirling robes, Arwen’s slim dark dress, the jewels that cover the shoulders of her dress like burning stars, creeping up her neck in a high sort of fashion. She laughs as he dips her, his hair light and her hair dark, his skin oaken and hers moon-pale, the smiles all the same.

Elrohir dearly hopes they do not marry. It has only been a few years since the two Silvan elves arrived, and already they seem more like foster siblings than future courting opportunities.

Elladan reaches out a hand to Legolas, who gladly spins Arwen towards her, until she is dancing with the both of them. They gleam and sparkle in the dimness of the hall, the fire roaring and crackling, the sound of tales being sung and laughter being shared. It is an unearthly night, now that Elrohir is old enough to truly experience it, and certainly the merriness is helped by the drink that flows freely.

“Elrohir!” Tauriel appears in front of him, lovely in her river-forest colors. She is smiling, surprisingly free and unreserved, and most likely the slightest bit tipsy. She is joyful, tonight, looser than she’s been in a while. But she and Legolas grow happier every day, farther from the quiet grief they’d carried when they’d arrived. Elrohir smiles at her. She is growing to be as dear to him as Arwen, and he is already thankful for the foresight of their parents, in arranging this fostering of families.

“Dance with me,” Tauriel says, and extends a hand.

“Of course,” Elrohir replies, and takes it.

“Your sister has a plan,” Tauriel tells him, a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth as they join the rhythm of the dancing circles.

“Should I be worried?” Elrohir asks, raising an eyebrow.

Tauriel laughs. “Simply dance me towards Arwen and Legolas. The idea is to get Erestor and Glorfindel into a dance with each other, I believe.”

They do, and Elrohir keeps a lid on the memories in his head, because this is his first century feast, but he cannot forget others, others before and others after –

“Now,” Tauriel whispers, but her giggling makes it less sly.

He twirls her away, towards Arwen, and the two elleths catch hold of each other, laughing and smiling, while Elrohir ends up with an armful of muscled blond.

“My,” Elrohir drawls, with the personality that often leads people to confuse him with Elladan, “what fine muscles you have, my lady.”

Legolas raises an eyebrow at him. Elrohir, in return, squeezes Legolas’s rather impressive arm muscles. Legolas trips in his dancing, before returning Elrohir’s smirk. The blond ellon is fluttery and flighty and snarky, and annoyingly perceptive or shockingly oblivious in equal turns. In the past year, as they’ve become friends (foster-brothers), when the world and Elladan are too loud, he and Legolas will find a place to sit and read. Elrohir dearly loves him, loves how unpredictable he can be, loves his quiet contemplation of the trees. Loves how Legolas understands his sly sense of humor.

Legolas, who reaches down Elrohir’s waist and squeezes his ass. There’s a snort of laughter from Elladan, dancing a young elleth beside them, and a choked off wheeze from said elleth.

It isn’t until later, much later, that Elrohir finds his mother by one of the smaller fireplaces in the corner.

“Hello, darling,” Celebrían says softly.

Elrohir’s mother has always been quiet. _Quiet enough to be dangerous_ , his grandfather says, and his grandmother says something else, her face the same as Celebrían’s. Elrohir takes a deep breath, because the lines between past and present were already swirling tonight, without the added difficult of being a peredhel, but his mother just watches him with a small smile playing around with the corners of her lips.

“Where’s father?” Elrohir asks.

Celebrían nods towards Lindir, not far away. “They are singing a new song.”

And indeed they are, in Quenya no less, and in the time it takes Elrohir to mentally translate the rather obscure dialect that is Fëanorian Quenya, he catches the eye of his father. Which means suddenly he’s in a different court, and the ellon they sing of is at the front of the room, cloaked in stars, scion of kings, and a retainer stands at his side, and Elrond responds to something Elrohir did not say. “Nimloth. Like our grandmother, in a way. An amusement, perhaps, of our fathers’ family?”

“Darling,” Celebrían says gently, because Elrohir’s name is Elrohir, not Elros.

Elrohir emerges from the past with a terrible sense of sadness. His mother doesn’t have to ask. She just knows. She leads Elrohir out onto the dance floor. “It is not only sad songs they sing,” she says.

“That is what it seems like,” Elrohir responds.

“You are too young.”

“Thank you, mother, I’m aware.”

Celebrían raises an eyebrow at him, pale on her face. Elrohir wonders why he didn’t get her hair. He and his siblings are all raven-haired like their father (like Elwing, like Lúthien) and though they share the storminess of their eyes with their mother, that is not what others see.

Sometimes, he wishes he had her hair.

“It is the way of our people. We sing of the sadness, we learn from our mistakes. But it is not only the sad songs they sing,” she repeats. She tilts her head back, and her hair spins as she does, reflecting the candles, silver and fair and full of light. “I promise you that, my love.”

* * *

_Thranduil Oropherion, Eryn Galen, the year TA 301_

_Elrond,_

_A new century! We celebrated by drinking a spectacular amount of wine; it was a shame you were not there._

_I have been hearing an extraordinary amount about a series of ‘pranks’, for which I would like to apologize in advance or retrospect, it really does not matter. I cannot control my children, and neither can you, but if you would please forward my condolences to Erestor, I am sure that would make up for his feelings on this whole ‘diplomatic agreement’ being his idea. I mean no offense, truly. (I am, for once, being more diplomatic than my wife, if you can believe it. She finds the whole thing rather hilarious.)_

_In other news…_

_Elrond Peredhel, Imladris, the year TA 304_

_A quick note,_

_In response to your last letter – yes, they have finally been allowed to go on a hunt. I believe, in fact, that they were all indignant that it had taken so long, and I do understand that, but of course we still wanted to be careful. They brought home a great buck, and I believe that in fact having Tauriel and Legolas there made my three less reckless. They are having a grand time in this new century – enjoying themselves quite a bit, I say. I am sure you and Brethillómë have heard some tales._

_The lands of Men are growing, and I cannot tell if this legacy would make Elros unhappy, or proud…_

* * *

It is Legolas who figures it out.

It is funny, sometimes, what the people of Imladris expect of him and his sister. Everybody seems to assume his sister to be the studious one, due to her general quietness, and expects him to be the reckless one, due to his general demeanor. (And, possibly, due to the behavior of Elladan and Elrohir.) To which Legolas would like to tell them that they’re _both_ reckless, except that Tauriel’s intense expression has absolutely nothing behind it, while Legolas’s, which he has been told looks like an oblivious frog, does (on occasion) provide a front for actual thought process.

So Legolas figures it out. He’s really, rather astounded at himself, that it’s taken him ten years of knowing these three siblings. Something niggles in his head, like a dream of a dream, but he ignores it. Instead he corners Elrohir, on a rainy fall day, while Elladan helps out in the kitchen, and Arwen and Tauriel disappear off on some secret endeavor.

“Elrohir,” Legolas says.

“Legolas,” Elrohir says, and raises an eyebrow at him.

“You didn’t have anywhere to be, did you?”

Elrohir raises the other eyebrow at him, so that it is now him who resembles a frog. “Yes, because in this homely house of healing I have so much to attend to.”

Legolas pulls him into a small alcove. It has a statue, and a painting, and as if the world is mocking him, the painting is of Lúthien. Legolas points at it. “You – ”

Elrohir’s eyebrows are permanently raised.

“You are descended from Melian,” Legolas says.

“Yes,” Elrohir says patiently. Evenly. There’s something guarded in his eyes.

Legolas has read a few things about Melian. “When we were hunting,” he says. _When I watched you and your siblings eat the legs off a deer without killing it first_ , he doesn’t say. He’s pretty sure they thought he and Tauriel were in a different area of the forest.

Elrohir makes a pained expression that’s usually accompanied by the worst swears he knows in Quenya. Legolas has become well-acquainted with this expression, as well as with the following sound of Erestor shouting. Since Erestor is not here promising painful death, Legolas comes to the conclusion that he may, actually, be right.

“You are…” Legolas has absolutely no clue how to approach this. “You are, all three of you, peredhil.”

“I am,” Elrohir says. “We are. It is our legacy.”

“It is your choice,” Legolas replies, only slightly slowly. “But if you must make that choice…then what are you, until that time?”

Elrohir sighs. The words come out haltingly. “There was an agreement, with the Valar, with my father, and his brother. Only they did not hash out what exactly that agreement meant. So the only thing we can guess is that, for now, we are neither elves, nor are we men. We are most likely as close to the Children of Ilúvatar as Maiar.”

Legolas blinks. Then he blinks again. Then he sits down. “Well,” he says. “I was expecting that. I read of Melian, and Lúthien, and the girdle around Doriath. I read of stars, and songs that sang to sleep the Great Enemy. But I still…”

Elrohir swallows. And then something in how he holds himself, something loosens. Or maybe it’s just a letting go, and then the ellon standing in front of him does not quite fit the boundaries of what he should. There’s…eyes, on his hands. His eyes, the grey ones. Many of them, small and big and blinking at different times. And the eyes in his eye sockets are black, full of stars, full of void. He blinks them, and breathes in; stands differently, and smiles. Sharp teeth. Sharp nails. Sharp edges. A disruption in the air, like this does not conform to the song.

“You have wings,” Legolas says, which is true. “This is not what I was expecting,” he adds, which is also true.

Elrohir shrugs. “We are what we are,” he says, in his voice, a voice that is still so horribly sad and mortal. “We are made of the scraps of past and future.”

Legolas thinks about that, and there’s the barest memory. A forest full of stars. A forehead to his own. A hand covered in blood. “You know,” he says. “I believe I did know that.”

Elrohir raises an eyebrow at him. The wings have gone away, with some kind of conscious effort, but the eyes have not. “What will you do?” A question there. A danger. _Will you scream_? _Will you leave_? _What will you make of this_?

Legolas shrugs. He looks at Elrohir all the same. “When we reach two hundred years old,” Legolas says, then clarifies. “The Silvan. When we reach two hundred years old, we must carry out the coming-of-age rituals. It is hardly explainable, without knowledge of our culture and our ways.”

“Yes,” Elrohir agrees.

“But the point of the matter,” Legolas says, “is that we know time is not a line. It is a circle, and a tapestry, and a song. We know the music in the way of our traditions. You,” Legolas pauses, and looks at Elrohir’s stars. Somewhere there is an elf-lord in a dark room, and Legolas knows him, and Elrohir is him, but is not. Somewhere there is blood. Somewhere there is time, moving faster or slower, and somewhere in the forest a man gets caught and held in time like a fly in amber, because time is just a circle, just a song, and the Silvan know these songs. “You’re just caught in the middle.”

“Until the end,” Elrohir says bitterly, with the pessimism that accompanies his occasional proclamations of doom.

“Leave the dramatics to Arwen,” Legolas tells him. “She plays it with more grace.”

Elrohir snorts. He offers Legolas a hand up, and they walk through the halls quietly, and they discuss how to tell Tauriel. (Maybe they will leave that to Arwen. Maybe they already have.) The rain batters the windows and the walls, and Elrohir leads Legolas through dim rooms, and finally they reach the walkway over the falls.

There is more water than normal, rushing and roaring and crashing. The sky swirls, a force unto itself, all darkness and threat. Legolas hums with the river. That, a Sindarin quirk inherited from his father, means that when Elrohir finally speaks, he can hear him perfectly.

“My father was raised on a battleground. I hear the stories, of wings and teeth and claws; of my uncle, king of men, and of my father, who fought with Gil-galad. Of my grandmother who built her people a refuge, and grew wings. My grandfather and my great-grandfather, who carried with them a Silmaril. And Lúthien, my grandmother so many times back, she who danced and sang and defeated even Morgoth. I hear those stories, of them, of the houses of Fingolfin, of Finarfin, of Fëanor, all to whom I may claim distant kinship. I hear the stories, but even worse, I _know_ those stories. I…I remember sorrow, and pain not my own.” Elrohir turns to Legolas, his hair whipping back from his face, his robes rippling in the wind. “Yet they were raised in a war, and their otherness was purposeful. What are we, then, when this world is no longer meant for us?”

Legolas struggles to find an elegant way to respond. The rain lashes the edge of the walkway, towards his boots. Elrohir holds out a hand under the downpour, and a mouth yawns wide on his palm.

“I think you will enjoy our forest,” Legolas finally says. “I think you will understand the music of it. I think perhaps you will feel less alone.”

Elrohir crooks a sad smile, like Legolas has grasped the salient point of this conversation more easily than expected. “I hope,” he says.

Legolas does not know what the future will hold. What vagueness he remembers from his coming-of-age was not pleasant. But hope is a relentless, solid thing, and even on this darkened day, Legolas will not let it go. “Yes,” he agrees. “Do you know what the word family means, in our language?”

Elrohir tilts his head inquiringly.

“It does not mean blood bonds, although I suppose it can too. But it references more the invisible ties between us all. The strong ones. The ones of kin, of love, of inheriting a legacy. The ones that mean, _I will follow you to the end._ ” He holds out a hand to Elrohir, and the other ellon takes it. They echo a dream that Legolas has never had. “It is good then, to have family.”

“Yes,” Elrohir says softly. “Yes, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> schools starting soon so i probably will be even MORE sporadic (if you can believe it) with updates, but anyway enjoy <3

**Author's Note:**

> if you can guess what song the title is from you get extra points !!
> 
> anyway come scream with me on [tumblr](https://stormwarnings.tumblr.com/) :D


End file.
